


À La Carte

by ddagent



Series: Caterer!Phil [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Food, Friendship, Restaurants, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6584023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Melinda finally go on that date. Part of the Caterer!Phil series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	À La Carte

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Agents of SHIELD, its characters or settings. All belongs to Marvel and ABC.
> 
> Big thank you to valanthaliadon, whose awesome requests for caterer!Phil helped jump start this fic! I hope you all enjoy it!

Phil Coulson had once catered a wedding for two hundred people; prepared the food for a series of political fundraisers in Washington D.C. On a trip to South America, he had tasted some of the world’s hottest delicacies _._ Yet the prospect of a first date with Melinda May rendered him as nervous as a teenager. 

It had been several months since their first meeting. A Christmas party for a group of wealthy lawyers and their partners. Usually such parties were unbearable: the host would micro-manage, desperate to make sure their party was nothing short of perfection; and the guests were usually too drunk to care about the food. But that night, there had been _Melinda._ A balm on a busy night, they had shared a passionate kiss in a mistletoe laden elevator. But the New Year had not brought romance. They lost touch. He had spent his days preparing menus and plating food, and his nights mostly sleeping in sauce stained t-shirts. But thankfully the Universe had decided to give them another chance.

_“Friday good for you? Around eight?”_

_“Sounds perfect.”  
_

And it would be perfect. Phil had seen to that. Melinda was one of the most amazing women he had ever met. He wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers a second time. 

Their reservation was at eight, and time was ticking on. Phil stared in the full length mirror in his wardrobe, adjusting the way his suit jacket fell across his shoulders. He resisted the urge to itch his collar, his stomach. The packaging from his new shirt still lay on the bed behind him. The tie was okay. A souvenir from his last trip to Italy. Still, he eased his thumb between the collar and loosened the knot. He looked okay. Handsome, even. 

A knock at his apartment door disturbed his ministrations.  _“_ Be right there!”

Phil took one last look in the mirror before practically running to the front door. He tugged at the latch, yanking it open. Skye was slipping her headphones into her satchel, grinning as she saw him. “Hey AC. I got your text.”

“Did you bring it?”

Skye nodded. "The six exclamation marks were a little overkill, but I’ve got it.” She dug through her messenger bag, pulling out a small black box. “What is it, anyway?”

“Cufflinks,” Phil explained, immediately snapping open the box. He’d worn the small _Captain America_ shields at his high school graduation, his college graduation, and every single job interview he’d ever had. Tonight, he needed that same luck. “Thanks for bringing these over, Skye. I hope I didn’t interrupt your plans.”

She shrugged. “Not really _._ Just x-box and pizza.”

Phil couldn’t help his smile. He’d first met Skye when she was a part time hacker living in a beat up van just behind his local diner. She’d been caught using the free wifi and the manager had told her, rather forcefully, to hit the road. Needing a waitress for his first event, Phil had offered her a job. Two years on, and Skye was out of her van and into her own apartment. A New York apartment probably wasn’t much _bigger_ than her van, but at least it had a door that locked. 

After adjusting his cuffs, Phil looked at Skye. “Okay, how do I look?”

Skye glanced up from her phone to stare at her boss. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Phil swallowed. That wasn’t quite the reaction he had been hoping for. “What do you mean?”

“Well...it’s not _bad._ ” Her lips thinned, desperately trying to save face. “I mean, Ms May seems like a really cool woman. She runs a martial arts studio, you know? You look...like you’re running a PTA meeting.”

“I’ll go change.”

“Good idea.”

Skye slipped into his apartment, taking root in the armchair nearest the television. He retreated to his bedroom, hands yanking at his tie along the way. A quick outfit change was not helping his nerves. Phil tugged off his jacket, trying to decide whether he could save the shirt. The big circles of sweat under the armpits rendered it useless.  _So much for twenty-four hour protection._

“So, what are you guys doing tonight?” Skye called out from the other room. 

“I’m taking her to _Cocoon,_ you know that restaurant uptown?” Phil slipped on another shirt; this one a little nicer to his skin. His fingers stumbled over the buttons. “I had to call in three favours to get a reservation.” He opted against the tie; left the top buttons undone. Definitely better. 

“I thought you were going to make dinner. You've been planning that menu for like _months_.”

Phil joined Skye back in the living room, adjusting the cufflinks on his new shirt. “I was, but there was an... _incident_ involving a crème brûlée torch. I opted for a restaurant instead.” He straightened his jacket, offering himself to Skye’s criticism. “What do you think?”

She grinned. “Perfect, AC.”

He really hoped it was. 

\--

 _Cocoon_ was a small, exclusive restaurant uptown whose food was to _die_ for. Phil had some close friends in the food world, and had scored an invitation six months ago for opening night. The flavours had been _explosive._ He had wanted to come back ever since, but had just been too busy. His date with Melinda May was the perfect opportunity to once again sample their cuisine. It was also the perfect location for a romantic first date. 

His cab pulled up down the block, and Phil gave the driver a little something extra for running that red light. He quickly spotted the sign for the restaurant, and suddenly his nerves returned. He’d considered bringing flowers, maybe even chocolates for Melinda. But his nerves had summoned up the memory of his first ever date. Fifteen year old Phil, stuffed into a short sleeved shirt and carrying a big bouquet of daisies. His date had been allergic, and she’d sneezed through the entire movie. 

So no flowers. No chocolates. Just him. 

Phil waited outside _Cocoon_ , checking his watch to make sure he wasn’t late. He’d suggested picking her up at her apartment, but Melinda had preferred to meet at the restaurant itself. He was here. Now all he had to do was wait. 

“You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you outside of a kitchen.”

He turned, beaming as he saw Melinda approach. “I guess so. You find the place okay?”

Melinda nodded. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you are.” He was babbling. They hadn’t even got inside yet and he was _babbling_. “You look beautiful.”

She was exquisite. He had thought the little black dress she’d worn at the Christmas party had been sexy, but the grey dress she wore tonight made his mouth water. A simple gold chain adorned her neck. Elegant, stunning. He suddenly felt under dressed in comparison. _Beautiful._

“Thank you.” Melinda moved closer; fingers brushing over his cufflinks. “You clean up good, Coulson.”

He grinned. She was used to seeing him in sweat ringed, sauce covered t-shirts and pants. The fact that she was attracted to him like that was still a mystery to him. Phil leant down, his lips lingering at the corner of her mouth. 

“Shall we go in?”

Melinda nodded, following him into the restaurant. It was an elegant place, well lit with oak panelling and fifteen intimate tables. Most of them were already full, with the patrons enjoying a host of different dishes from _Cocoon’s_ elegantly constructed menu. As they waited in front of the maître d', Phil peered around desperately to see what they were eating. _The steak tartare looks amazing._ Turning back to his date, Phil caught Melinda smirking. 

“I think you’re going to like this place. I was here opening night, the reviews have only got better.” 

Melinda nodded, squinting as the waiter brought out another set of plates. “I trust you.”

They finally reached the maître d'; a severe looking man with a pencil thin moustache. He gave a courteous nod at Phil; his lips pulling up in a sneer at the sight of Melinda’s leather jacket. “Reservation?”

“Table at eight for Coulson.”

A bony finger ran down the length of the reservations book. “ _Of course._ If you’ll follow me.”

They were led to a small table in the corner, near enough to the kitchen to see the line of plates passing through. The table could have been better, but at least this way Phil would get a look at all their dishes. 

“Madam, might I take your jacket?”

The maître d' placed a hand on Melinda’s shoulder, attempting to help her out of her jacket. She jerked away, slipping it off herself. She handed it to him, getting a small token in exchange. “Thank you.”

His smile was thin, pained. “Our sommelier will be with you shortly.” 

Phil usually took his date’s jacket, and _always_ pulled out a chair for them. Melinda was already seated when he turned around. Phil sat across from her, smiling awkwardly. A waiter passed by their table, pouring them water and giving them both something to do with their hands. Another waiter; their menus. Melinda snapped open the cover, glancing at the list. Her eyes bulged. 

“Phil, you might have to help me here.”

"Is everything okay?”

Melinda closed her menu. “Last night I had cereal for dinner.”

Phil barked out a laugh. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”

“I know.”

The sommelier arrived quickly, producing a wine list and his own recommendations. Phil had spent a summer studying at a vineyard, trying to better understand how wine would pair with his food. However, his knowledge wasn’t extensive and the bottles he did recognise cost two months rent. He closed the wine list, passing it to the sommelier with a smile. 

“Your recommendation will be perfect, thank you. Two glasses?” He asked, glancing over at Melinda. She nodded. “Two glasses, thank you.”

The sommelier nodded, retreating to the wine cellar to retrieve their choice. Melinda smiled at the departing figure. “Do you know much about wine?”

“A little. I know more about food. Thanks to my college education, I know a lot more about beer.”

Melinda grinned. “I bet. You went to college with Clint, right?”

He nodded, chuckling at old memories. “I did. He was a lot of fun, although I didn’t care for his pranks. Have you heard from them since the wedding?”

“No. But I don’t expect them to come up for air until the flight back.”

Phil laughed, Melinda joining in. So far, so good. The sommelier returned with the bottle, offering Phil a taste. He checked the colour, even swishing it around his mouth. _Delicious._ They barely had a chance to try the freshly poured wine before the waiter returned asking for their choices. Drawing on his memory of what Melinda had enjoyed at their previous meetings, he ordered for them both. 

“Well, I hope you’ll like it,” Phil said, smiling sheepishly across the table at her. 

“I’m sure I will.” She took a sip of the wine, enjoying the taste. “I wasn’t joking about the cereal.”

Phil laughed all the same. “I’m not one to talk. Last night I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’ve been too exhausted to cook this week.”

“Have you been resting up? Trying new recipes?”

He swallowed the image of the renegade crème brûlée torch and the disappointed face of the fire fighter who had answered the call. “A few. I had a couple of calls this week; I’ve actually been planning new menus. Hard to unwind when you enjoy your work. How about you? How’s the studio?” 

Melinda grinned; happy he had remembered. In reality, he had actually looked her studio up online after their very first meeting; even considered popping into one of her classes. Slip in the back, wait until her class was over, and then say, _hey, remember me?_ It was a dumb plan, and he’d never gone through with it. But a part of him wished he had. He would love to see Melinda in her natural habitat.

“It’s good. Got a few new students, a couple of new classes. It’s good work. I like it.” 

“Did you always want to open your own studio?”

Melinda pressed her lips against the rim of her wine glass. “No.”

Phil wanted to pry. He wanted to know everything there was to know about her. But he didn’t want to push. Thankfully the waiter arrived with their entrée. Although it was expensive, Phil hadn’t been able to resist the caviar. Served on a soft poached egg, Phil had to physically restrain himself from digging in.Melinda’s entrée was less risqué; she was served thinly sliced Italian ham on toasted tomato bread. 

“This looks...nice,” Melinda declared. “Good choice.”

“Thank you.” Phil sliced into his poached egg, watching the yolk run over the plate. The caviar was _amazing._ He’d catered an event a few months back where the hostess had insisted on using it on everything. Phil was happy to have the chance to try it again. “How’s yours?”

Melinda dabbed at the crumbs around her mouth with a napkin. “Good.”

Phil grinned, taking a gulp of wine as he dug into his dish. A few of the diners around them were taking dainty bites of their food, but not Phil. He loved the flavour, the texture, the smell. Food was his life, and right now, this was  _living._  

As he chewed his last mouthful, Phil looked over at his date. She was watching him intently, smiling behind the rim of her wine glass. “Everything okay?”

“You really love food, don’t you?”

Phil nodded, swallowing. “I do. Ever since I was a kid.”

“How’d you get into it?”

He shifted in his seat, unsure whether to bring this up on a first date. “When I was a kid, I was real close to my Dad. He passed away when I was young, and after that I hung around my Mom and my Grandma. They both loved to cook. Stew, spaghetti - my Grandma had a recipe for apple strudel that would blow your mind.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was. I fell in love with the smells, the different tastes. I started making my own dishes. Some of them were dumb, but a couple weren’t.” Phil risked a glance at Melinda, and encouraged by her soft smile he continued. “Every Thursday after school I’d bike into town, pick up a couple of comic books and a new cook book. I was obsessed.”

Her smile grew; body leaning forward across the table. “I can picture you. Coulson the boy chef.” 

Phil laughed. “Yeah, I guess I was. One Christmas, my Mom got me a little chef’s hat. I never wore it, but it hung on the back of the kitchen door.”

“When did you decide to do it for a living?”

“I didn’t.” Melinda arched an eyebrow. “I mean, it kind of found me. I went to college, studied history. I was the only guy in the dorm to use his hot plate for something other than grilled cheese.” She laughed. He loved her laugh. “I started working at a couple of restaurants. Bus boy, waiter, supply runner. By the end of senior year I was working as a sous chef in Boston. Place got closed down for breaching Health and Safety regulations, but it got me thinking - _I can do this.”_  

Melinda’s dark eyes held his gaze, and Phil was unable to tear himself away. Their moment was broken when the waiter reappeared, slipping Melinda’s half eaten entrée out from under her. The sommelier passed by soon after, topping  up their wine. Once they were alone again, Phil picked up the thread of conversation. “Okay, enough about me - what did you do at college?”

“Politics and international relations.”

Phil choked on his water. “Wow. That’s-wow. Can I ask how you got from that to running a martial arts studio?”

“It’s a long story.” Melinda sipped her wine. “One for another time.”

“Okay.” He’d been stonewalled again. Melinda was a private person, and he respected that. He just needed to find the right topic of conversation to get her talking. “So what do you do when you’re not at the studio or seducing innocent caterers?”

Melinda smirked. “Photography.”

“Really?” She nodded. “That’s incredible. What do you take shots of?”

A shrug. “Anything that catches my eye. When I first moved to New York, I loved sitting in Central Park. I would watch people go by, watch the birds...everything I saw was a story, a picture. I like to take shots of things people should remember, but never do.”

Melinda stared down at her wine glass, unsure of herself after opening up so much. Phil slid his hand across the table, fingers brushing hers. Her head lifted, a smile playing on her lips.  

“I got into it in high school, a hobby _other_ than martial arts.” Melinda took a sip of wine. “My mother hated it. But she liked it better than the ice skating.”

“Ice skating?” He had a sudden image of a tiny Melinda May skating atop a frozen lake. “You had a poster of Dorothy Hamill on your wall as a kid, didn’t you?” he teased. 

“Better than _Captain America._ ”

She’d clocked the cufflinks. But she was still holding his hand. Unfortunately, the waiter spoiled the moment as he brought the next course. Two identical plates were placed in front of them. 

“I had this the last time I was here, it was _divine._ The quail is so moist, and you’ve never had mashed potatoes like this.”

Melinda sniffed at her plate. “What’s that smell?”

“Truffles.” Phil grinned, taking a bite. “Oh my god, this is incredible. Go on, taste it!”

As Melinda tried her main course, Phil couldn’t stop smiling. The food was amazing, the wine was delicious, and the company was exquisite. He’d had no need to be nervous. This evening was going _perfectly._

\--

Dessert was just as appetising as the rest of the meal. Phil had ordered a chocolate soufflé, marvelling in the rich ice cream it was served with. Melinda knew enough about desserts to make a decision, opting for a dark chocolate mousse accompanied by a delightful sorbet. It was the first course she had finished all evening. 

After the waiter had taken their dishes, he offered them tea or coffee. Melinda interjected before Phil could speak. “No, thank you, we’ll just take the cheque.”

“Oh-okay.” Phil nodded. “Yes, we’ll just take the cheque.” 

Melinda had grown quiet over dinner, but they had still talked. Phil had told stories about growing up in Wisconsin and his first forays into the kitchen. Melinda had told a hilarious story about her career as a high school prankster. It had been a magical evening. But now it seemed like their evening was coming to an end. The waiter brought the bill, and Phil tried hard not to choke on the cheque. Thank god business was good. 

“How much is my half?”

Phil slid his credit card out of his wallet. “Dinner’s on me. I asked you out, remember?”

The waiter ran his card through the machine, and Phil signed nearly four hundred dollars away. Phil stood up, ready to help Melinda out of her chair and into her jacket. But she was already heading for the door. He nodded at the maître d' as he passed, joining Melinda outside in the cool New York air. Right now, he honestly expected her to hail a cab to take her home.

He was pleasantly surprised when they set off down the street together. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

“It was...good.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “You can be honest.”

Melinda shrugged. “It’s a little different from what I usually eat. There wasn’t much of it either.”

Phil nodded, groaning inwardly. He’d taken Melinda there to impress her. The few women he had dated since Audrey had enjoyed being taken to fancy restaurants;  _loved_ the way he had spoken French with the sommelier. Melinda wasn’t impressed with all that. He was starting to think she would have had a better evening in his burnt kitchen. 

“Have you ever thought about doing that?” Melinda said, her shoulder bumping his. “Opening your own restaurant?”

Phil paused, before nodding. “Sometimes. When I started working as a sous chef, I used to _dream_ about opening my own place. I finally got a job as a head chef and I hated it. Hated every minute of it.” 

He and Audrey had celebrated with champagne when he’d got the job. _Head chef._ But then the hours began to take a toll on their relationship; and when Audrey got a job offer in Portland she took it. Trying to plan a wedding whilst on opposite sides of the country was impossible. Audrey ended things just as she was about to leave for her European tour. He quit the restaurant two days later. 

“The owner wanted things a certain way. I couldn’t take the bad hours, the lack of freedom. I wasn’t even experimenting at home.”

“You like being creative.”

“I do. Choosing a menu, going to the farmers market to try new fruits, get supplies. Meeting new people.” Phil smiled. “Like you. When you’re in the kitchen, you’re stuck in there. Me - I get to be a part of peoples lives, their happiest moments. I love what I do.”

They continued their walk, Phil talking about his experiences working in a restaurant similar to  _Cocoon._ He told her his worst stories in graphic detail, pleased when she didn’t flinch. They laughed together, taking moments to just enjoy the other’s company. Eventually they passed a local food vendor, serving the stragglers of a bar across the street. 

“Don’t take offence, Phil, but I need to get something to eat,” Melinda explained, her hand resting on his arm. “It was a beautiful meal, but I’m starving.”

Phil nodded, understanding completely. “It’s okay. Their portions aren’t the biggest.” Melinda threw him a look. “Okay, okay, one of the quails would be hungry. Maybe I’ll join you.”

“Good. I’m paying this time.” 

“Deal.”

They queued up in front of the vendor, Melinda scanning the menu. Phil settled on something similar to a dish he’d enjoyed in Greece the previous summer. As they approached the front, Phil tried not to baulk at the state of the van. Being in food for many years, he knew all about health codes and food preparation. He winced at the grim inside, the state of the utensils and grills used to prepare the food. The server’s personal hygiene also left much to be desired. 

Still, after handing over a fistful of dollars, Melinda tucked into her food with gusto. “I had back to back classes today. I’m starving.”

“It looks...good.” Phil took an experimental bite, expecting to find something disgusting like a fingernail. But he was proved wrong. It was just well seasoned meat inside a flatbread. “This is really good.” 

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged, eagerly taking another bite. “I eat from vendors. Just in places like the Farmer’s market.”

“You’re a bit of a food snob, aren’t you Coulson?”

His mouth gaped, shocked at the accusation. But he had to admit, she wasn’t far wrong. “I just like food.”

They continued eating, Phil marvelling at the spices. He wondered what the vendor was using as seasoning. Soon both he and Melinda had finished their near midnight snack. They dumped their trash into a nearby bin, and kept on walking. Phil wasn’t sure where the rest of their evening was heading. It felt a little too soon to invite her in for a night cap, but he _really_ didn’t want the evening to end. 

“So, I have an early morning class,” Melinda said as they passed a taxi rank. She stopped, turning to Phil. “I had fun tonight.”

“Me too.”

She smiled, taking a step forward. They were closer now, within holding distance. _Kissing distance. “_ How long do you have until you’re back at work?”

“Another week.” Phil pressed his hand against her waist, feeling the thin fabric of her dress and the warmth of her skin through his fingertips. “How about next time, I cook for you?”

“I’d like that.” Cold hands pressed against the front of his shirt, sliding up to caress his open collar, his bare neck. “I love the way you taste.”

Phil grinned. “You mean, the way my _food_ tastes.”

Melinda shook her head. “No.”

She leant up, pressing her mouth to his. Phil leant into their kiss, his head reaching up to cradle the back of her head. He could taste the different spices on her lips; the rich texture of the wine on her tongue. He clutched at her, losing himself in how warm her lips felt. His stomach churned in anticipation. Melinda’s fingers stroked the nape of his neck, teased his scalp. He could lose himself forever in her touch. But then she pulled away, resting her forehead against his. 

“I’m glad we got that first date.”

Phil responded by throwing up in the gutter.

\--

The last thing Phil remembered was a kiss. A beautiful, intoxicating kiss with Melinda May on the corner of a New York street. It had been like something out of a movie. The gaps in his memory, however, suggested the aftermath was anything but. His head pounded, his skin felt clammy. There was a disgusting taste in the back of his throat. Phil gagged, reaching across for a nearby glass of water. He took a few gulps; his empty stomach groaning in protest. 

Now he remembered. So much for that perfect evening.

Phil slumped against the pillows. _Food poisoning._ He’d fallen victim three times before, and only once had been his doing. His clothes were damp with sweat, and his body felt like dry heaving all the water in his stomach. The fact that he didn’t was a good sign. The fact that he’d slept at all was good too.

He took another sip of water, smiling at the plastic _Flinstones_ glass in his hand. Phil was suddenly struck by the realisation that he didn’t own a glass like that. The sheets on his bed were _cream_ , not the deep blue he was currently sitting under. His books were in his kitchen, not in his bedroom. _This wasn’t his apartment._ A single photograph of a six year old girl on ice skates told him exactly whose apartment this was. 

“You’re awake.”

Melinda May stood in the doorway. The dress from last night was gone, replaced by a vest and shorts. Her hair was well kept, but her fingers massaged the back of her neck. She must have slept on the couch. _Great job Coulson. “_ I am so sorry about this.”

“Don’t apologise. You were sick.” Melinda approached the bed. Phil pulled his feet up so she could take a seat. “I tried not to take you vomiting after we kissed personally.”

Phil groaned. The weight of Melinda’s hand atop his gave him little comfort. “I don’t think my stomach enjoyed our midnight snack.”

“I think you’re right.” She reached over, hesitated for a moment, before pressing her hand against his forehead. “You were pretty hot last night. But you seem to be through the worst of it.”

As she pulled away, Phil offered her the brightest smile he could manage “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I couldn’t send you home. I didn’t know where home was.” Her thumb brushed his. “We’re friends, Phil. Friends take care of each other.” She stood up from the bed, heading to the door. “Do you think you’re up for eating anything? Dry toast happens to be my speciality.”

“Sounds perfect,” he croaked.

After Melinda left, Phil eased himself out of bed in an effort to find his pants. He felt like he’d just been hit by a bus. He needed a hot shower, a glass and a half of mouthwash, and a fresh change of clothes. After finding his pants, Phil checked his phone and found a stick of gum. He chewed it, finding the taste unpleasant. Still, anything was better than what he’d tasted before. 

Phil slid back into Melinda’s bed. This wasn’t exactly how he had planned their first breakfast together. Third date, he’d planned to make her eggs benedict with freshly squeezed orange juice and a daisy standing up in an old vase. It would have been beautiful and romantic. Instead it was _this_. 

Melinda reappeared with a tray. There was a fresh glass of water for him, and two slices of dry toast. There was a cup of tea for her, and some sliced fruit. She handed him the toast, sliding onto the bed beside him. 

“You feeling any better?”

“A little,” Phil said, nibbling on a crust. “We don’t seem to have much luck at this, do we?”

Melinda shrugged. “I don’t know. You got me into bed after the first date.”

Phil laughed weakly, leaning back against the pillows. He stared at Melinda, watched her spear a slice of mango. She really was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Smart, funny, and very, _very_ kind. “I really like you.”

“I really like you too.”

Phil took a sip of water, followed by a bigger bite of his toast. After throwing up a five dollar pita and a four hundred dollar dinner, the toast tasted good. “This is really good toast.”

“Thank you. You should taste it buttered.”

Phil choked back a laugh; Melinda smirking as she sipped her tea. This was the last thing Phil had expected for their first date. He had wanted things to go perfectly, to impress this amazing woman who had just wandered into his kitchen one night. But she was still here. After a barely adequate dinner and him throwing up in the gutter, she was still here. 

For the longest time, Phil had given up hope of meeting someone special. He was starting to realise that he could fall in love again. 


End file.
